Monday, October 25, 2004
God in the Shed
Ben was only eight and afraid of the dark. One evening his mother was cleaning the kitchen and wanted to sweep out the hall; so she asked him to fetch her the broom from the shed. Startled by such a suggestion Ben turned to her and said, "But, Mum, I don't want to go out there; it's really dark." His mother looked at him with a reassuring smile and said, "Now you know you don't need to be afraid of the dark, Ben. God is out there. He will protect you; so go on, and sing on the way." Looking quizzically at his mother, Ben sought further confirmation. "Are you sure he's out there?" "Yes, of course I'm sure. God is everywhere, and he is always ready to help if you need him," answered his mother confidently. Ben thought about this for a few moments and then walked cautiously toward the back door. Slowly he opened it halfway and peered through the gap. Then, raising his voice, he called out, "God? If you are out there, would you please fetch me the broom from the shed?"
- posted by -g @ 6:34 AM | | 0 rocks in pond
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
And why does it seem that the hungry get lost in the problems of those who are satisfied?
That is a wonderful question. Thank you Lindsey!
Any answers children?
- posted by -g @ 11:07 PM | | 0 rocks in pond
Sunday, October 17, 2004
Inaccuracy
The past is inaccurate, because we cannot determine how it was in fact, no matter how hard we try. We must rely on people's memory, which is treacherous, because memory is constantly juggling and revising the data of experience. Even when people say they were present when something happened, one cannot trust them, but usually they simply repeat as a fact what they heard from other people. In telling about an event, we ourselves cannot avoid revising it, because our narrative simplifies and composes a whole out of selected components, while omitting others. It suffices to compare our knowledge of facts with their depiction in chronicles, journalistic accounts, memoirs, to understand the need for fantasizing that is somehow inscribed in the language itself, and which draws us into the forest of fiction.
- posted by -g @ 2:26 PM | | 0 rocks in pond
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
This reminds me of Allie:
For the truly creative mind in any field is no more than this -a human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create - to create - to create - so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of beauty and meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create. He must pour out creation. By some strange unknown pressing inward urgency he is not really alive unless he is creating.
-- Pearl S. Buck
I am still working on identifying all those mugs!~
- posted by -g @ 9:26 AM | | 0 rocks in pond
Sunday, October 10, 2004
I am going to follow up your "Pensive; Contemplative" with a little bit of
Adorable; Tasty
All you need is love.
We all need love.
- posted by Allie @ 8:12 PM | | 0 rocks in pond
Saturday, October 09, 2004
I Know
I know this German man who smokes Prince and Keeps fish. He is the answer to a complicated puzzle. The question becomes: HOW?
- posted by -g @ 8:57 PM | | 0 rocks in pond
Pensive; Contemplative
- posted by -g @ 6:36 PM | | 0 rocks in pond
critical lawnmower
humble dan
potting soil
diarrhea of the brain
bad haiku daily
thegreatlockbox
dirty laundry
emily joy joy
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